


Loaded Gun

by dinoburger



Series: CC lore nobody asked for [3]
Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Gen, Minor Violence, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinoburger/pseuds/dinoburger
Summary: Chris knows he was a bad kid.
Series: CC lore nobody asked for [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1415665
Kudos: 13





	Loaded Gun

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting in my drafts for months, it's not plot important but it does touch on some stuff going on with Chris, just a one-off thing
> 
> it's likely I will get back to writing this series sometime too...

It feels strange when it’s not on his person, that weight and all that comes with it. His escape plan and one way ticket out of there.

The gun is only what Chris wants it to be, neutral, no more than a tool at his disposal, so he tries not to think about it like that. He takes off his jacket at the end of the day and haphazardly tosses the weapon in the top drawer with all his balled up socks, shunting it shut.

He knows that most of the men he works with as of late are armed too. He’s managed to have gotten this far. But in the quiet of the room, with no one around, he’s safe for just a moment. Or at least, he can pretend he is.

Chris lets himself think he’ll only sit for just a minute before he goes to wash out his hair for the evening. But the longer he sits, the more he feels himself collapsing in and in and in, heavy from wear. The more he can only stare at the floor between his boots.

He knows what it’s all for. That kid. The Gents. 

Nonetheless, little things still eat away at him. 

Nonetheless, he can’t let them see.

Sometimes he wanders back to the kitchen table where his mother sits, in the home he grew up in. It’s long after he should’ve gone to bed, and she’s mumbling about how she should “get it all over with”.

He’s unable to speak, not sure what to say, unable to leave or look away.

It’s the dark room that still lives in the back of his head. He won’t be like her, won’t tell a soul, but those morbid thoughts he carries like a loaded gun.

That place in his mind grows so dark and heavy and obscure that he fears it seeps through him. 

Feels like a gun pressed to his head.

It’s an image floating on his consciousness, dreamlike, from a time long passed. His mother’s hand on his shoulder, so much larger then.

Her nails biting into him through the fabric of his shirt. The weapon he can’t see against his skull. Her voice harsh next to his ear.

And his head going numb.

The charged words shooting between her and his father are an incoherent frantic scrawl, a violent shape being carved out by desperate hands.

He remembers more vividly almost, the night that memory became clear again, the scene flooding back, seizing him. Him standing alone in the dead of dark by the kitchen table with his heart pounding and his head going numb and the tears spilling over, like some part of him had burst open.

He wonders still, whether the world would be simpler if she'd pulled the trigger and not left him wondering whether he'd be better off with a bullet in his head.

In his heart of hearts, he knows he was never the kid they wanted anyway. The more like himself he became, defiant, his uncle letting him wear the clothes he wanted and have his hair the way he liked, the more they seemed to resent him.

And always when he'd hear his mother's long winded rambles about that lovely Weeks family and their lovely house and their sweet, well-behaved little son. He could just feel it, this itching inferiority, an unspoken "why aren't you like that?"

"Why aren't you good?"

Every word loaded. That's what it was like, all the time with those words digging into him.

It was a simpler time when he could go take it out on some poor sweet kid who didn't know any better, for whatever trifling reason he could come up with.

The suffering of others was his pleasure.

They weren't bad people, his parents. He'd been a bad kid, that's what Chris told himself.

Even his father came around eventually and offered support. He couldn't look Chris in the eyes, the weight of the guilt of having knocked loose one of his son's canines in a fit of rage smothered any chance of so much as talking about those times, but still he tried.

Could have been worse. Could always be worse.

He'd wait it out a bit longer.

If Chris could do even the slightest bit of good to the world, he'd try. If he could make it all worth it, before he made up his mind.

One good deed, one chance to give that kid a better life.

Which is why Chris swore to himself he'd never let Dustin see the loaded gun.


End file.
